


And I'll Follow

by Necronon



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: AccidentalSex7, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Dancing, Hannibal is a Cannibal, M/M, Season/Series 01, Sexual Content, Some Fluff, Some Humor, Tango, but low-key, but not real explicit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-03-27
Updated: 2018-03-27
Packaged: 2019-04-13 12:38:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,785
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14112516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Necronon/pseuds/Necronon
Summary: Will asks if Hannibal can teach him a thing or two about tango. Hannibal obliges.





	And I'll Follow

**Author's Note:**

> I found this unfinished AU and proceeded to add too much to it. So here it is. No beta. Eyes crossed. Done for now. Also posted on my [tumblr](https://thenecronon.tumblr.com/) too.

They fall into companionable silence. Will, reclining on the chaise with hands laced across his solar plexus, expression thoughtful. Hannibal at his desk, gently thumbing through a patient journal. “R. Tier” is scrawled across the face in neat copperplate—a degree more hasty than his present penmanship—and the lignin is well oxidized by at least a decade of age; one of many carefully cultivated aces he keeps stowed up his sleeve. Hannibal has even greater expectations of his most recent charge—dare he say _friend_ and mean it in any genuine capacity.

A talking point for his own therapist.

Hannibal’s eyes lift to find Will watching him, brow pinched and eyes slightly unfocused.

“Something on your mind?”

“You could say that.” Will sits up. “Hey, you know how to dance, right?”

“I’m sorry?” Hannibal sets down R. Tier and straightens in his chair, swiveling to track Will as he rises and strolls closer, loitering near the corner of his desk.

Then unceremoniously sitting catty-corner atop it.

From anyone else, the nonchalance might inspire irritation; instead Hannibal feels gratification. Will has become so familiar with his personal effects, so uncharacteristically complacent. It is a testament to Hannibal’s character that he has fostered trust with this wild man, and he allows himself a moment of self-congratulation for his success.

Will peers over at him and mistakes his expression. “Don’t look so amused.”

“An admissible amount of amusement, I assure you.” Hannibal adopts a grave (read: very put-upon) expression. “I am sure this is quite the serious matter. Please, elaborate.”

Will shakes his head. “It _will_ be if I can’t tell my left foot from my right by Friday.”

“Oh?”

“Beverly,” Will confides as if that is all the explanation required. “I lost a bet. The consequences are dancing tango. Doing the tango?” Will makes a sour expression, cheeks rounded and small teeth on display, that Hannibal wholly adores. A disgruntled Saint Sebastian, if such a thing could be imagined.

Never mind the egregiously pleasant images of Will executing a promenade in high waisted Latin dance trousers, hair loose and figure cut, that follow. He lets this train of thought play out behind a carefully constructed mask of placidity. Will does not take kindly to direct praise, so Hannibal doles it out in bite-size tidbits, tucked discretely between more platonic remarks.

“Not common fare about the clubs in Baltimore, though I don’t imagine that is your destination.”

“Not exactly.” Will picks open the journal lying on the desk. Hannibal resists the urge to snatch it away, but the interest is cursory and Will lets it fall closed again. “But I made a promise.”

“I didn’t take you for a gambling man.”

“Apparently I’m not. Bev’s taking classes. Needed a partner. And I’m not very good at guessing arbitrary numbers.”

“No _modus operandi._ Nothing to interpret.”

Will glances at him and shrugs a shoulder, “Right,” then crosses his arms to keep from, Hannibal suspects, anxiously rearranging the desk in lieu of eye contact. “My abilities aren’t supernatural. The layman likes to paint my profile with broad strokes.”

“Ms. Lounds and her readers most certainly do.”

“ _FBI employs psychic._ ” Will makes a face. “ _Division director an extraterrestrial._ I’ve seen the headlines. Though the latter might be true.”

“Our dear Jack’s provenance is no mystery—how willing he is to exploit his human resources, on the other hand...”

Will frowns. “Will you show me or not?”

Hannibal reclines and studies Will, considering. “You’re assuming I know how.”

“You know everything. You’re worldly and equipped that way. Like... a socialite’s version of the Batman belt. You do, don’t you?”

“The ba—” Hannibal narrows his eyes and crosses his legs. The affront is mild—Will enjoys his rankling. Disguised affection, he knows, and Hannibal will take it packaged most any way. “I have a rudimentary understanding, sans a traumatic boyhood encounter with bats.”

“Not a fan of comic books?”

“No, I’m afraid not. But it is a form of expression all the same.”

“Art, you mean. And you _have_ to respect that.”

Hannibal lets out a long-suffering sigh. “You’re not here to tease me about my aesthetics and argue semantics. Or are you?”

“Again, maybe the latter. I think my ‘rudimentary’ might be a bit more dire than yours. You can at least show me the basics.”

“This is how you want to spend your hour?”

“Sure. Is that a problem?”

Will tilts his chin down and lofts an inquisitive brow that draws neat lines across his forehead, as if to say, _Well?_ Of course Hannibal obliges him. He found himself ready to oblige the minute the favor was even insinuated, Will’s ears a little red and redder now. Hannibal wants to leech their warmth with his fingers, test the give of the cartilage with thumb and nail. He likens them to the ornamental ears of domesticated canines, made soft by breeding for sociability, belying the hindbrain instinct still lurking between.

He does not, however, and lets the poor man’s ears be.

“No, it is no problem.”

“Good.” Will pushes away from the desk and stands in a nondescript position, arms out and exhibiting himself for Hannibal’s appraisal.

Hannibal looks him up and down and does his best approximation of professional detachment. He’ll have some mercy on the man. “An appropriate stance to receive a tailor, to be sure.” Some.

“Be nice.”

Hannibal rises and fastens his suit jacket. The final once-over he allots Will is accompanied by an audible sigh, and he sets to his task. Will watches intently as he circles behind him and gently guides Will’s arms back to his sides. “Limp posture has no place in dance, most certainly not this one.” A push to his lower back. “Better.”

“Can’t say I’ve been accused of being limp before,” Will mumbles, his resulting embarrassment palpable. Hannibal shows mercy a second time and doesn’t acknowledge the verbal blunder, allowing Will to stew in silence as he maneuvers him into a promenade, one hand raised high and the other midriff.

“You’ve seen this done before?”

“I watched an episode of _Dancing With the Stars_ once.”

Hannibal frowns.

“Not really, no. I have no idea what I’m doing.”

“Not yet,” Hannibal says, taking one measured step towards him so that they’re a hair’s breadth apart. “But you will.”

“Uh—”

“We’ll start with a closed position and work on your walk. Five steps.” Hannibal takes his hands—calloused, dry, but firm—and searches Will’s eyes. “Ready?”

And apparently Will is.

He masters the basic steps more quickly than Hannibal anticipates. They slow, slow, quick-quick, slow until Will gets the gist. Hannibal is patient when some of those steps end up on polished toes, even though he can see they are less and less polished as they go. After Will’s third apology, Hannibal suggests they lose the shoes. He clears some space as Will shucks his boots, and they begin again.

The hour turns into two before either realizes.

  


* * *

  


  


“How did your evening with Ms. Katz go?”

“Well...” Will drops his bag by the door and hangs his coat in its customary place, shouldering past Hannibal towards the study. “We had a good laugh about my predisposition to follow. Couldn’t dance the lead to save my life. Not without putting Beverly’s toes at great risk.” Will breathes out a single, dry laugh. “She asked if you had a sense of humor she didn’t know about. Kind of wondering the same thing.”

“Learning to lead and follow will set you on the path to mastery.”

“It was a couple’s practice session, not a competition. In which it was safe to assume we’d be dancing stereotypical roles.” Will stops and pivots slowly on his heels. “I kept wondering why my psychiatrist—”

“—not officially—”

“—would sabotage his patient’s date. Besides some sadistic satisfaction.”

Hannibal purses his lips. “That would be unspeakably discourteous, and more than a little selfish.”

“It would, wouldn’t it?” Will agrees, voice elevated into an irritated falsetto. “Good thing it was incidental then. A lapse of a normally cognizant man’s judgment.”

“I am human, Will. I only wished to help you where able—I apologize if I was inconsiderate.”

Hannibal sees the exact moment Will’s anger breaks and dissipates. Will falls into Hannibal’s leather reading chair and lets out a _whoosh_ of air, rubbing a hand aggressively through his curls.

“No, sorry—you’re right. I just—” A frustrated groan. “I made a fool of myself.”

“You’re human too. And I very much doubt Ms. Katz minded in the least.”

“Oh, she thought it was hilarious. Luckily for both of us, she was a pretty good lead.”

“In my defense, it is easier in the beginning to follow, and you were doing quite well. I thought we might tackle your leading next session.”

“So you deliberately cast me as the girl?”

“Is it so important that you fill a traditional role?”

“Uh-uh, I don’t think so.” Will leans forward, cutting a look at Hannibal. “You’re not turning this into a therapy session.”

“I cannot turn off my curiosity, Will, though mine is admittedly not of the professional variety. Unorthodox interest for the unofficial capacity we maintain.” Hannibal quirks his head as he studies Will’s face, but cannot read it. Not entirely.

“Maybe it was selfish of you. A little. You got a dance partner out of it, in the end. Not exactly a zero-sum game.”

“Did I?”

“Undecided.” Will peers at him for an uncharacteristically long moment. Then he stretches, shoulders sagging, and motions towards the kitchen with a lackadaisical: “Well, what’s cookin’, good lookin’? I’m starving, and _something_ smells fantastic.”

“ _Will._ ”

  


* * *

  


  


As it turns out, Hannibal does glean a dance partner, and he wastes no time indulging the opportunity, renewing a passion left to languish since his 20s. Over their last dinner, Will and he had agreed upon a dedicated night once per week for their extracurricular activity, and that night is tonight.

Hannibal considers flamenco, but he’s getting ahead of himself. Not yet. Perhaps a classic Astor Piazzolla with its dependable beat? No, too folksy and at odds with the interior of the study and the atmosphere he aims to achieve. Best left for the streets of the barrios.

The idea of Will as a traveling companion occurs to him with an immediacy that stalls his hand on the dial. Not an absurd idea, but new. Not fully realized. He is more surprised by its desirability. Will is the exception yet again, it seems.

 _An exception._ Of course.

Hannibal navigates the digital catalog—lossless files; he is not a barbarian—and chooses an album: nuevo tango, something more intimate and orchestral. Then he turns, smiling, to consult the room as the music plays. An atypically slow BPM for tango, but it is solid and sensual. He feels the croon of the violin in his chest, the sashaying maracas, binaural and skirting about the room, in the heels of his feet.

If Hannibal can tolerate Will’s occasional “Nickelbacks” claptrap, Will can forgive him this. Will has humored him thus far.

Hannibal sets the album to cycle and stokes the fire as he reminisces fondly over his time in the barrios of Buenos Aires, hemmed in by vibrant fresco and jiving _porteños_ crowding shopfronts and confetti-littered boulevards during a week-long _milonga_. A veritable sea of eclectic dancers, bright eyes, and minds. A city of art and intellect. It had appealed to the young man he’d been. A wilder Palermo to supplement its European cousin, to appease his nascent yet still dangerously blithe hedonism. He remembers too a woman many years his senior on his arm, a suitable companion that had born an uncanny resemblance to the imago of his sister—had she grown into a woman—he’d instituted in his memory palace. There had been wine and food to rival his Florence, and an arrogance meriting all manner of postmortem tableaux.

Hannibal had been inspired anew.

Just as Will inspires him now, rousing carefully kept sensation to the forefront of his mind. A riot of colors, tastes, and scents.

Shortly before Will had arrived, Hannibal had set a roast to bake, pausing every half hour to reapply glaze and inspect the meat. Will slumps on a bar stool to rest and look on. It feels good to work up a sweat, to indulge himself in so many passionswithin a night. Hannibal sees no reason to moderate himself and intends Will to do the same. The younger man’s flushed face and creeping smile suggests he is. Hannibal is enamored with him, this Will that is taking his pleasure and carefree—he basks almost as beautifully as he suffers. Almost. There are still ramparts to clear in the fort of Will’s mind. In the meantime, Hannibal will thoroughly enjoy mollycoddling.

After the roast is tended, Hannibal follows Will back to the study, refills their glasses, and takes Will by the hands. Will does this now with confidence and a delightful degree of anticipation. He’s improved enormously, and Hannibal’s flattery does not go unnoticed.

Will looks up into his face, soft expression breaking as he laughs, beaming with amusement and a simple joy that Hannibal is growing fast possessive of.

“What is it?” Hannibal asks gently, careful not to spoil this rarefied moment. Less rare, perhaps, when they are alone.

“Your face.”

“How unfortunate.”

Willmuffles more laughter, effervescent from two glasses of Hannibal’s wine, the third presently forgotten. “It’s just... You look so _pleased_.”

“I am pleased.”

“You shouldn’t be. I’m really bad at this.”

“You’re not.” Hannibal pulls Will into a snappy back corte, justified when Will effortlessly follows—the tangible product of Hannibal’s tutelage. “Not in the least.”

Will makes a soft sound, something between abashed and amused, that makes Hannibal’s scalp tingle. “I keep telling myself Hannibal Lecter is teaching me to tango, trying to wrap my mind around it. I don’t dance. Of course you do, but—”Will shakes his head, winded.

Hannibal hears his labored breath while they’re drawn close together. He listens to it for longer than he intends, and by the time his eyes focus, Will is peering at him quizzically, waiting for Hannibal to lead them out of the corte. Hannibal doesn’t, not yet, holding them in the position and utilizing his greater height to survey the bow of Will’s neck and his fine-boned collar. Will has pushed himself tonight—he can smell it, the sweat pooling in the hollow of his throat, beaded on his forehead and upper lip. A savory tang. Resplendent. Hannibal can hardly help when he leans close, almost imperceptibly, andinhales.Endorphins, brine, sebum, wood smoke, alcohol, and—no. No ships on bottles, not tonight. A deliberate deference, just for him. Will knew they would be in close quarters.

Hannibal withdraws to find Will’s eyes are wide, a question gathering in them, butbefore he can ask it, Hannibal returns them to their closed position, hands interlocked, and leads them forward and back, side-to-side, circuiting the room in a leisurely waltz.

“What happened to ‘crouch into your knees’?” Will asks, voice parched. The air is dry from the fire, or so Hannibal suspects Will is telling himself.

“I was thinking.” Hannibal turns them about, discreetly subtracting from the negative space between them as he does, bringing himself considerably closer to a flushed ear. “I wanted to try something new. You’re ready.”

“If you say so.”Will quirks a brow and sways along with Hannibal. “Nothing too athletic. I’m already beat.”

“Tedious synchronization but straightforward. Ah, I almost forget.” Hannibal disengages and excuses himself. “A moment.”

He returns to find Will watching the fire, but his eyes are immediately drawn to the parcel Hannibal carries. Hannibal hands it over and waits for Will to, awkwardly, unearth the latin dance trousers inside—finely made and a telling white that’s more for Hannibal’s benefit than Will’s.

“Uh, thanks. I think?”

“Advanced steps require a bit more mobility than Wrangler probably permits.”

“I like jeans. And these look a little...small.”

“They are fitted but flexible. Please.”

Will looks up, a crestfallen child who’s just discovered his Christmas surprise is several pairs of socks. “What, now?”

“Yes, now. I want to be sure they fit.” Hannibal knows they will. Will still looks skeptical, so Hannibal adds, “Special order and worth every penny, I have no doubt.”

Will scowls at the blatant manipulation but stalks off to the guest bathroom. He’s familiar enough with Hannibal’s home—and Hannibal—to need no direction or permission. Hannibal watches him go with the smallest of smiles.

Hannibal is sitting in a chair, the leather one Will likes to call The Throne, when Will ekes around the corner, red-faced, and says, “Are they supposed to fit like this?”

Hannibal closes his mouth, clears his throat, and commands his expression. “An exacting fit.”

Will’s “like this” undoubtedly refers to the fabric clinging to his thighs and assets. Not standard, no, but the merchant had obliged Hannibal all the same. The results further vindicate his decision. Even in tired denim, Hannibal knew Will would cut an enticing figure. An objective observation, until recent developments insinuated Will as a sexual being,as well as an intellectual one. Atypical but not asexual. Hannibal is, after all, still discovering.

Tonight he will further investigate those boundaries.

“Now your movement will be unencumbered.” Hannibal offers his hand.

“Where are yours?” Will, haltingly, accepts.

“In transit. I hadn’t anticipated your quick study. Though, in hindsight, I should have.”

“I’m not sure anyone could have predicted _this_. Least of all me, but...”

“Will?”

“I don’t know.” Will sighs, frustrated. “What did you want to try?”

They have time. Will is disciplined enough with the basic steps that incorporating the _serpentina_ leg wrap shouldn’t require many iterations. He lets Will lead to demonstrate, talking him through the adjustments. It’s not until Hannibal draws a leg up along the outside of Will’s that he feels Will’s posture stiffen.

Something new, indeed.

“Ready to follow?”

Will nods, otherwise mute, beautiful in his dawning realization.

It’s a gradual transition, from corte to intermingled thighs. A cloying hand slipping by degrees down Will’s spine until, when Will prepares to mount his thigh, he can press him into it. There’s a palpable heat emanating from Will, a small molten core of humiliation. No, apprehension. The air is metallic with anxiety and other sundry emotions. Hannibal looses small encouragements into Will’s ear, augmenting them.

_Good, yes, beautiful form. Again._

Will looks to be on the verge of tears when Hannibal clutches him by the hips and holds him tight to him, not moving but not letting Will reflexively retreat—or otherwise—either.

Will drops his head and chokes out, “Oh, God, s-sorry, I don’t know what’s wrong with me. I—”

“Will.”

Hannibal is imperious, and Will’s attention snaps back to him, eyes glittering. Wet glasz, the adjacent fire an orange pinpoint at the edge of the iris. Hannibal thinks of his paints stowed away in the closet.Then, certain now that he feels the evidence of Will’s arousal against his leg, smells it in the air, he gradually cranes his head and places a dry kiss to Will’s mouth. A confirmation. The smallest _I know, and so do I._

There’s a moment during which Hannibal thinks Will might step away, but he inevitably remains. Stock still and staring with wonderment. Red and damp with exertion and the potential exertion to come. Will is overwrought, without words, so Hannibal communicates with his hands—there’s an honesty to it, an immediacy to them as he squeezes fondly at Will’s hips and moves in again. Lips open this time, the touch of his tongue a tentative invitation.

“I’m sorry,” Will says one last time, then licks into him, crossing a divide. The floodgates are open now, and they kiss, bite, and suck softly at one another until Hannibal has to push Will back back the shoulders for breath. And, of course, because he wants to see his work.

“Look,” he says, pushing a thigh between Will’s legs.

Will looks down just as their groins come together, making a hurt sound behind pressed lips that Hannibal tries to liberate with more mouthy kisses. The soft, clingy cotton is scandalous. Hannibal rolls his hips and, even through the material, can see Will’s cock jerk. Almost fully hard, a thickening line in his trousers, and Hannibal is close behind.

Hannibal clucks his tongue. “Will, this is really quite inappropriate.”

“Oh my god, are—are you seriously cracking wise n-n— _oh_.”

Hannibal pulls Will farther onto his thigh, and Will’s hips give an erratic little thrust. Hannibal smiles.

“I can teach you how to tango,” Hannibal offers, turning his mouth against the shell of Will’s ear, “but that doesn’t exclude other activities.” He noses into Will’s curls. Lets Will hear him breathe.

“Are you—” Will lets out a ragged breath and swallows. “Are you actually asking if I—we—that?”

“You make it sound so taboo. Yes. Sex in its many forms, if you prefer me to be blunt.”

“Oh—uh—I don’t. I don’t usually...”

“Intimacy with a man?”

“Intimacy at all. Maybe. I just...”

Hannibal tuts and warns, “The truth, Will,” voice edged and rough. He’ll respect Will’s refusal, but he is allowed some disappointment. He hadn’t expected quite so quick an escalation, his or Will’s, and now that they’re here, he’s eager to test the waters.

“I wanted to see what you would do. What you would say.”

_Ah, there it is._

“You wondered if I would be jealous when you informed me about your date with Ms. Katz.”

“Yes. I mean, not only that.” Will drew an uneven breath and looked him in the eyes. “Were you?”

“I thought that if you wanted an introduction to dance, I would be a preferable instructor over the third-rate charlatan that runs the studio downtown.”

“That’s a little dramatic. The instructor wasn’t that bad, and—wait. Did you... actually look look the place up?”

“When a piece of music falls flat, I don’t blame the instrument—I blame the musician.”

“Saving the world from sub-par dance?” Will’s lips part. Hannibal can see the thought as it forms. “Or sub-par romance?”

“Or lack thereof.”

Hannibal grunts as Will walks him back and crowds him up against the nearest wall. Will pushes into him, and Hannibal tests the angle with one deep roll of his hips. He gets a hiss and throaty moan for his trouble.

“Can you put the roast on warm?” Will asks in a rush.

Hannibal purses his lips and deliberates.

Will quirks a brow and glowers.

“Yes, I can.”

“Okay. You lead. I’ll follow.”

“I assume we’re no longer discussing tango.”

“No, Hannibal. We’re not.”

  


  



End file.
